


dancing on glass

by miss_belivet



Category: Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, more of a close examination of what isabel thought of diana at the gala than anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 09:52:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_belivet/pseuds/miss_belivet
Summary: In which Dr. Isabel Maru, instead of General Ludendorff, intercepts Diana at the gala and shares a dance.





	dancing on glass

“Besides, now I see your attention is...  _elsewhere.”_

Isabel Maru’s mask pulled at the fragile flesh of her cheek, but her lips curled up in a triumphant smirk as she watched the man in front of her nonetheless. _Thwarted by a pretty woman in a dress._ The thought had pulled a caustic laugh up out of her scarred throat.

With a pleased, cat-who-got-the-cream look at the panic in her so-called admirer’s eyes, she turned on a heel and left him alone by the fire. No man, not even a German one, would honestly honor her with such praise. _The most talented chemist in the Germany army_. It was true, of course, but they were all too afraid of her—the _witch,_ Dr. Poison—to acknowledge it.

She, at least, spoke German without such an obvious accent.

The crowd parted for her, peacocking dancers shuffling away and lone officers sidling out of view. Ludendorff was making small talk with a woman whose head bobbed like a chicken’s, the large feather in her hair swaying ridiculously and bopping her husband on the nose, and Isabel rolled her eyes. It was time for her presentation, for Ludendorff's victory, and she had little patience for the shallow men and women who would use a few glasses of champagne and carefully constructed masks of hero-worship to climb the social ladder.

When she reached the general’s entourage one of the lieutenants gestured her away with a sharp flick of the hand, but her eyes locked once again on the woman in blue. She had maneuvered her way to the middle of the dance floor, seemingly determined as she approached the general, and Isabel almost dismissed her as another soft-hearted pacifist who wanted to challenge their plans. Instead, intrigued by the intensity with which she studied the general, Isabel stepped forward, even though she had never preferred direct confrontation to her more subtle attacks. The woman was statuesque, unadorned by ostentatious jewels or superfluous tufts of tulle, the blue of her gown striking and simple against her olive skin.

And, Isabel noticed with some dryness of her mouth, the neckline was remarkably low-cut.

 _Thwarted by a pretty woman in a dress_.

Curiosity was always her undoing.

The woman’s gaze slid away from Ludendorff and settled awkwardly on the dancers around her.

 _You are not comfortable here_. The passing thought was smug, and Isabel raised a challenging brow at the woman. She didn't enjoy the numerous galas and balls High Command hosted either, and finding that discomfort in someone else was gratifying.

But when she reached Isabel, the woman stopped, examining the barrier she created in her path to Ludendorff. She stared at the mask, as usual; once she managed to avert her eyes, she gave Isabel a measured once-over. Then, she looked again, her eyes roving down Isabel's petite figure more slowly the second time. For a split-second, the way her eyes lingered on Isabel's waist, her hips, her hands was almost complimentary, almost flattering, until her expression shifted into something altogether unwelcome.

As an accomplished killer herself, Isabel recognized the murder in her eyes.

Her right hand twitched toward her pocket, intent on finding a syringe or a capsule that might defend her against an attempted attack, but another hand grasped hers before she reached them, lifting her hand up and away. A palm on her waist swung her around, so that she was staring at Ludendorff's back over a shoulder clad in blue silk.

Isabel stumbled, caught by surprise, and to steady herself, she placed her free hand on the woman, her _assailant’s,_ arm.

Immediately, she was keenly aware of the looks they were already receiving. Such a spectacle, in the middle of the ballroom! Her face grew hot under her mask with equal amounts of fear and chagrin, and she scowled up at the woman who had just accosted her and possessed the nerve to continue swaying alongside the other couples. Two women dancing together was strange, but two women who were both oddly dressed and not known—or in Isabel’s case,  _respected—_ by the other attendees was entirely too conspicuous.

“You are Dr. Poison.”

Isabel could only stare. Some kind of disbelieving hysteria rose up in her chest, the sensation escaping from in her throat as a low, rasping snicker, this time at the brazen audacity of this woman to call her by such a name to her face. Men had died for less in her labs! She waited for a flustered correction, a terrified apology, but when none came, she took it upon herself to do so.

"I am _Dr. Maru."_

"Diana." The woman, Diana, nodded almost politely, and Isabel continued to watch her with wide, incredulous eyes.

"Diana...?" Isabel prompted, but she received only a blank look in return. "It is strange to introduce yourself with only a first name... _Especially_ in these troubled times."

"Diana Prince." Diana said, a slight crease of confusion between her eyes. "You know, Dr. Maru, I hear peace could be so close." Her voice had suddenly softened, and her eyes went kind, beseeching. The hand at Isabel's waist shifted, as if Diana was  _petting_ her.

Despite the unsettling tingle beneath Diana's hand, Isabel felt some measure of enjoyment as her assumptions were proven correct; the other woman  _was_ a pacifist, though Isabel had to wonder if she truly wanted peace, or if she simply wanted her Parisian gowns and British teas again, like she knew most German wives did.

"If you think a document with the Kaiser's signature on it will appease the masses, then I have misjudged you." Her eyes narrowed, watching Diana for any signs of protest, but her dancing partner remained silent at the prodding insult, so Isabel lightened her tone, continuing in a breezing mockery of past professors and overblown philosophers, "War is humanity's only aesthetic ideal, our only pastime, now that—as some might say—the old gods are dead."

A couple to their right passed by, and Isabel heard the woman scoff. She flickered her eyes sharply at the pair, and both of their faces drained of color.

Diana frowned, and it was an overwhelmingly pretty frown. "That is not true."

"What isn't?" Isabel asked, curious, and her gloved hand flexed over the bare skin of Diana's arm. She could feel the warmth seeping through her leather glove, and for a moment, she wanted to take it off, to feel the soft warmth beneath her bare fingers. She had not danced with a woman in too many years, and although she could imagine which rumors about her the other guests were already reviving, she wanted to enjoy it. "The bit about war, or..." she made a low noise in her throat, "The bit about the _gods?"_

"The gods. They are _not_ all—"

_"Doktor!"_

The lieutenant from before stood beside them, glowering unkindly in Isabel's direction. Behind him, her false admirer from the fireside waited with his mouth agape.

Isabel smirked again. He seemed perturbed by Diana's choice in partners, so she nodded cooly at him.

It always had pleased her to put a man in his place.

One more look at Diana, slightly judgmental and still highly intrigued, and she extracted herself from the embrace, smoothing the wrinkles in her sleeves with the back of her hands. "It seems that I must go, Miss Prince. You will have to enjoy the rest of the evening without me."

Finally, the look of outrage that Isabel had been waiting for crossed the other woman's face, but Isabel did not linger; the general was waiting by the exit, and the display of her newest gas was running on a strict schedule. She made her way toward them, pushing both of her hands deep into her pockets. One grasped a syringe— _just in case_ —but the other flexed again, enjoying the radiant warmth that remained beneath her palm.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! The title for this fic comes from the song Dancing on Glass by St. Lucia. (...which, honestly, makes me think of peppy honor court rep Diana and science geek Isabel dancing together at their senior prom. Oops.)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are much beloved <3


End file.
